Confessions of a Murderer
I picked up.
It shivered down my spine, flowed through my veins—
instant fulfillment, happiness, relief.
For one bright second I was whole. Then it whispered what teaching actually costs.
A truth so rotten I couldn’t breathe it.
So I hung up.
Killed the shiver.
Slashed whatever was flowing through my veins.
And buried the body of the person I almost became.
It was a seminar I had to complete before the actual pinning ceremony and field study could begin. Those were extremely tiring weeks of planning, leading and preparing myself for the path I had no choice but to take. Even with that exhaustion, I openly told my family and friends how much I was looking forward to my on-the-job training, despite the fact that they kept asking why I was so excited when I had already said countless times that I didn’t actually want to teach or become an educator someday. Yes, I really didn’t want to, but a small part of me still wanted to give it a chance, just for those moments. Deep inside, I was desperately and quietly begging the universe to change my heart and mind. I was pleading for it to—at least this time—finally make sense, for me to finally understand why I was being pulled down this path, or maybe, just maybe, to feel that this was where I actually and truly belonged.
Days passed. The pinning ceremony came and went and at last, the day of our deployment arrived. Unlike my classmates, who already knew who would be guiding them because they had met them during Field Study 1, I had nothing. My slate was completely blank. I couldn’t even guess who it might be; I didn’t know a single soul out there. My instincts weren’t helping either, so my mind and heart felt empty. It was exactly like being a stray cat dumped in an unfamiliar place, waiting for any person who might care enough to adopt it. And just like those stray cats on the road that look up at every passerby with hope, only to be met with cold words or indifference, a deep sense of not being welcomed washed over me. I hadn’t expected that—not at that moment. All the endless hope I had carried through the seminar, the hope that this time I would finally feel “this is it, this is where I belong,” was completely shattered. Completely shattered within the very first hour of the very first day.
I didn’t let myself turn pessimistic, though. In some small way, I let that first day slide. Should I have braced myself for something worse? Probably. But it kept happening anyway.
I was fully aware that this was going to be so different—that it would never be easy. I had mentally and emotionally prepared myself for it. I worked on that preparation for so long and I thank myself for it because it truly helped. Still, most of the time, the thinker and observer in me wouldn’t stop, just like it always does. It feels as if I’m constantly looking at everything from a bird’s-eye view. I can clearly see how the system actually works. I was already aware that the Philippine educational system is fucked up, we had discussed and debated it endlessly in class but seeing it and witnessing it with my own eyes feels so much different. It’s more real, raw, and honestly suffocating. Before, I thought that if I became a teacher, I could change everything I disliked about the system. But once I stood in the actual spot of a teacher, I realized the truth, even as a teacher, you don’t really have a choice but to follow the system. That was one of the hardest truths I’ve ever had to swallow.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m too political, or if it’s simply because I’m angry at the government, that following the rules has become so difficult for me. One thing I’ve personally realized is that I’m not a good follower especially when what I’m asked to follow isn’t credible, intelligent or humble enough. Why would I follow someone who doesn’t even possess the very qualities they demand from me? To me, people like that just sound and look like hypocrites. And that’s exactly what the people running the system are like. I've witnessed and realized so much while being in this field. For example, the government is deliberately trying to keep learners dumb—yes, they’re working hard to make the next generation less educated. They wear a mask that looks like they’re doing something for education, but the truth is they don’t want it at all. They don’t want future voters and citizens to become truly educated, because educated people are harder to manipulate. The curriculum is completely fucked up. I might discuss this sentiment in more detail with evidence someday, because it would take too long right now.
The other day, I was sitting with my friends in the school garden, just waiting for time to pass, when we suddenly started talking about something we had all noticed about the system. We realized the sequencing makes no sense. Here’s what the current setup is: Grade 7 does Asian History, Grade 8 does World History, Grade 9 dives into Economics, and Grade 10 tackles Contemporary Issues. We all agreed it would make far more sense for learners to first understand the issues in society and how the economy actually works. Those two things are fundamental to grasping how the world operates and they’re absolutely essential when you later study history because everything is interconnected like a domino effect. As Social Studies majors, we’ve seen that this backwards order is the main reason, why history classes get labeled as boring or unimportant: it simply isn’t taught in the way students need it to be taught. Effective teaching requires a logical timeline, and the curriculum we have right now does not provide that.
Another issue is how they shrink and condense the lessons. Every time they shrink a lesson, a little piece of educational integrity dies. As someone teaching World History, I’ve experienced firsthand how the curriculum pushes its own propaganda version of events. They remove or squeeze out what is truly essential. The teaching methods and strategies are a problem too, there are so many teachers who simply cannot teach. I remember telling my students that “teaching” and “effectively teaching” are two completely different things. And from what I’ve witnessed, far too many people just stand there and teach, they don’t care whether the students actually learn anything. They just want to get through those 50 minutes and get paid anyway.
Another thing is the physical environment of the learners. There are classrooms with very little ventilation, and some are also very dark because the lights are broken. When you can’t properly see what you’re studying, it’s hard. When you can’t focus on listening to lectures because the temperature is extremely hot and there aren’t enough fans to cool the room, it’s hard. There are rooms where the chairs are broken or not functional enough, where the televisions don’t work, or where, most of the time, they have technical issues that disrupt the discussion and distract the students.
On the psychological side, there are educators who do not have an appropriate approach toward their learners. They think that being aggressive and angry earns them respect, but it doesn’t really help. It makes the class quiet, of course but they’re quiet because they’re scared, not because they want to listen to the discussion. Proper discipline is often not practiced. Some people there believe discipline means aggressiveness or dominance, but it’s not like that at all. They don’t have what it takes to be a good influence. Yes, being strict and authoritative is good, but it is not the same as being passive-aggressive. A high ego won’t help either. Just because you’re the educator doesn’t mean you’re always right—that’s a huge no. I remember a phrase my professor once said: “A learner must learn from their teacher, but a teacher must also learn from their learners.” Yet I’ve encountered people here who don’t have that mindset at all. They always think that because the learners are young, they know nothing and are inferior. I definitely disagree with that kind of thinking.
I spent months in these schools and I thank my students for letting me learn so much from them. Empathy and compassion matter so much, and they taught me that more than anyone else. Spending time with these kids let me learn so much. One thing I realized is that children mirror what they see in adults. This proves the theory we discussed in my university class, The Observational Learning Theory, which explains that people learn behaviors, attitudes, and emotional reactions by watching and imitating others. It’s exactly like this—if you give them a warm approach, they give it back to you; if you give them coldness, they give it back too.
How can I say it’s real? During the first months of my practice teaching, I was continuously being observed by my supervisors, so my initial demeanor was cold and unapproachable that was what I had been taught. But in the later months, when I was finally alone with my classes, I realized that approach didn’t work for me at all. So I decided to change. I kept appropriate authority but added warmth and approachability, and it totally changed everything. The learners responded so much better when they felt safe and welcomed in class. Last thing: learning is so much better when it has a perfect balance of fun and seriousness. Teaching doesn’t always have to be quiet or deadly serious. I actually like my class when it’s “academically noisy.” I instantly feel bored teaching when they’re extremely quiet because then I think they’re uninterested in the lesson. I was so glad my students were funny, kind, and sweet enough to make the whole journey bearable. Every day I went there, they were the only reason I wanted to keep going and finish it.
By then, the learners had already made me feel a deep sense of belonging, one I hadn’t felt in a long time. For the first time in years, I sensed real purpose. This, I realized, might actually be my calling.
I used to say I hated kids. After spending time with these ones, though, I discovered how much fun they are. They have this effortless way of erasing my problems the moment they walk into the room. Teaching itself turned out to be joyful—I love sharing knowledge, especially when my students look like eager little zombies, hands shooting up, desperate to answer. There are moments when nearly every hand is raised and I’m overwhelmed trying to choose who to call on. Each time that happens, something inside me softens; I know I’m doing something right, and it melts my heart to see them listening so intently.
I once asked each class about their dreams. I’ll never forget how their eyes lit up as they told me what they wanted to be and why. In those moments, I saw my younger self in them—full of color, hope, and a wide-open view of the world. Yet every time they spoke, a quiet part of me ached, knowing that in this broken system, many of those dreams will fade or become almost impossible to chase. The old battle between passion and practicality waits for them too. Still, in that classroom, I let them dream.
It infuriates me when people there call them dumb or stupid. If anyone is responsible for making sure these kids don’t end up lost, it’s us—the educators. It hurts even more when they get scolded or punished for trivial things, sometimes without proof, or when I suspect some are being targeted by predators. There were days it physically pained me because I couldn’t protect them enough. I’m only one person, and I’m not nearly enough. Some nights I wished I were selfless enough to dedicate my entire life to them. I would, if I could. But the truth is I have my own life and my own dreams waiting too.
I saw and endured a lot of ugly things there—too many to list without writing a book. Yet the single most beautiful thing I carry with me is the kindness and warmth those students gave me. Even if they forget my name years from now, I will always wish them the very best from wherever I am. That experience lit a fire in my heart. I know—I truly know—I could be a good teacher. I have what it takes.
But in the end, I had to put that fire out. I’m not selfless enough to sacrifice everything this path demands. Now I understand why teachers are called heroes: to teach is to be wounded every day by a system that piles on impossible workloads; to teach is to stay passionate and dedicated enough to make sure real learning happens; to teach is to give up so much of yourself.
I know I'm not that good enough to do that. So I killed the desire, even though it hurt like murder.
